


Business as Usual

by Kahvi



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Angst, Future Fic, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-05
Updated: 2013-07-05
Packaged: 2017-12-17 18:37:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/870728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahvi/pseuds/Kahvi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even the cleverest men in the galaxy grow old.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Business as Usual

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published on ASCEML in 2006.

“It’s old Bashir again,” they whispered, covering their grins behind newsprint sheets and PADDs, never staring directly at him. He tried his best not to notice.

The android waiter took his order, and without comment, returned to the kitchen. Presently, he returned with a Centurian martini, one single slice of star-fruit adorning its elegant rim. The glass, as always, was chilled to perfection, a small sprinkling of vanilla sugar slowly settling on the bottom, near the elegant, long stem. Bashir swirled the glass around a bit, allowing the white powder to mix with the drink, then took one long, drawn out sip. Exquisite. As always. How tediously dull.

It was early afternoon still, and the streets were full of people. Cars were banned on this part of New Paris. The old saying; if you can’t afford a transporter, you can’t afford New Paris. Julian Bashir could afford a transporter. He had several, one in his apartment just off Santiago street, and another in his ship in orbit. Acquiring latinum or any other local currency of preference was simple enough for a man of his talents. Or rather, a man of the talents he used to have.

Now, the bright summer sun shone down upon the streetwalk, and he finished his martini. Several handsome young men in expensive designer outfits walked by, a few of them making eye-contact, all of them grinning. They all knew who he was, of course. Everyone did. In his own good time he paid his bill, sticking an extra slip of latinum into the tipping-slot in the pocket of the waiter’s uniform shirt. This pointless extravagance amused him, as it was meant to do. He sometimes wondered who ended up with all the excess latinum, but not for very long. Life, of late, had grown too short to consider such trifles. The waiter thanked him politely, flashing him a brilliant, flirtatious grin. Somehow that new-fangled detail, surely added since he’d been here last, unnerved him somewhat, and he almost forgot his hat as he left.

“La Casa” was conveniently located just a short walk from the main promenade. The façade blended in perfectly with the surrounding scenery; you didn’t notice it unless you knew it was there. Somewhere in the back of his analytical mind, Julian realized that this was done with clever holographics and cloaking-devices, but the overall impression was no less impressive. Locating the entrance with customary ease, he tipped his hat to the doorman, who was new, and brushed his fingertips along the DNA-triggered lock.

He’d started going here after he and… After their affair was over, and somehow had never gotten out of the habit. He’d even taken Miles once, during the short-lived disaster that could hardly be described as a relationship. “But why here?” Miles had asked, whispered, even as they’d entered the club. The man simply had no sense of discretion. “Why not just go to Risa? Everyone else does, and it’s not like there’s anything on offer here that can’t be got over there…” At this point Julian had been forced to hush him up, as people had begun to look at them reproachfully. The fact that everyone DID go to Risa was exactly why places like New Paris existed, Julian had explained later, in the privacy of their room at The Savoy Ultra – this was before the apartment. If you went to Risa, everyone would know why - or think they know. You went to Risa for an orgy of the pleasures of the flesh, which in most people’s cases meant all-night interspecies sex-marathons. But New Paris… You went to New Paris for a luxurious vacation in an exotic part of newly colonized space. The sex was like a surprise that just sort of happened. “Oh, fellatio! I didn’t know!” People with latinum expect something a little extra, something exclusive. Then Miles had asked, not for the first time, where the latinum for their trip had come from, and Julian had been unable to answer him. Three awkward days later, Miles was on his way back to Keiko, the usual shame and confusion torturing his soul. Julian never invited him back.

Now, as he stood once again in the lush, velvet-clad halls of the old “Casa”, he could scarcely believe he had ever been away. There were no mirrors, he noted thankfully. This was a detail he’d never really noticed when he was younger, and although he knew why this was, he refused to go further down that line of thought. Instead, he settled himself in one of the many comfortable pseudo-leather love-seats that lined the walls, and waited. A drink appeared out of nowhere, handed to him – presumably – by one of the human servants that La Casa employed simply for the novelty. They were known for their uncanny ability to never be seen. It was a local brandy, a particular favorite of his. He no longer reflected on the fact that they seemed to know better than him what he craved. As he sat contemplating this, an immaculately dressed butler discreetly handed him a silver tray, on which a small card rested, face down. He took the card, waiting to read it until the butler had withdrawn, which he did quite swiftly. The card, when turned over, read merely: “3.”

Finishing his drink, Julian rose and pocketed the card. He knew exactly where to go – it was not a large building, and he had spent far too many hours here. The corridor in front of him gave way to a long, winding stair-case. In all likelihood, teleporters had been discretely placed at every mezzanine level, allowing those in ill health or bad shape to reach the top floors without much effort. Happily, this would not be an issue for Julian either way, as he was just going one floor up. Even the oldest, fattest patrons he’d seen in this place could manage that and still have enough energy for what awaited them. Arriving at the top, he scanned the corridor with curiosity. Numbers 1 and 2 were nowhere to be seen, meaning they were occupied, and thus camouflaged into non-existence. Number 4 was visible towards the other end from where he was standing, a small, pulsating light indicating its designation. Number 3 was not blinking, but it was there, its constant light signalling a “booked – as yet unoccupied” status. He adjusted his collar – a silly, sentimental thing - and entered.

Most patrons preferred their entertainers to be in the room as they arrived, for whatever reason. Julian didn’t know why, just that this was what most preferred. He didn’t. He didn’t quite know why that was either, but part of it could certainly be that he appreciated (if not exactly enjoyed) the anticipation. You never booked ahead, or made any kind of reservations at La Casa. Nor did you, at any point, indicate what it was that you wanted during your stay. Just like the drinks, everything was selected and arranged for you, and like the drinks, everything was always perfect, and exactly what you needed. The rooms were all high-quality holosuites, of much higher grade than even the holo-decks of Federation star-ships. This had not surprised Julian when he’d heard of it; it made sense if you thought about it. If something went wrong with a holo-deck on a starship, the crew simply diagnosed it, eliminated any problems resulting from it, and made repairs. Whereas if something went wrong with the holo-suites in La Casa, people got sued. This particular room was currently made up to look like a luxurious, tastefully furnished hotel room from Earth, sometime in the late 20th or early 21st century. The walls were white, with a subdued golden pattern that hovered somewhere on the edge of perception; the drapes were pale yellow and heavy, covering non-existent windows. The bed was large and inviting, in the same soft, creamy tones. Julian lay down, ready for whatever would come.

The boy could not have been older than 18 or 19, just a few years above the age of consent for human beings in the Federation, and certainly not old enough to be allowed to do this kind of work. But New Paris was not officially a part of the Federation yet, and their large colony of lawyers kept busy finding various ways of circumnavigating whatever laws did apply to them. He didn’t look 18, of course. He looked like a middle-aged Cardassian, but Julian was used to holo-masking techniques, and could always tell.

“Why don’t you come here and sit down,” Julian offered, patting the side of the bed. Trying to look confident, the entertainer came closer. Not only was he young, but clearly new in the game. As he sat down his hands didn’t keep still in his lap, as though he was unsure of what to do with them, which probably was the case. Julian waited for him to say something.

“It is good to see you,” he began, but Julian grabbed his hand, and shook his head.

“Please. I enjoy the mask – I need the mask - but don’t. You couldn’t pass for a Cardassian if I were blind drunk and you had a bag over your head. So don’t even try. In fact, don’t even say anything.” Julian was a little drunk, he suddenly realized, and what he’d just said wasn’t entirely the truth. Memories are powerful things, and this boy, even if he couldn’t act the part, looked it to a tee. Overcome suddenly, he grabbed the boy hard by the arms, pulled him close, and kissed him hungrily. Then he got a hold on himself, and pulled back.

The boy smiled, and the smile was eerily real. Maybe it was something about the way those brow-ridges restricted the movement of facial muscles, but the expression took Julian’s breath away. “They told me you’d want to talk first,” the boy said.

Julian shook his head. “They also told you not to break the illusion with a patron, but what did you just do?”

“But you told me to…”

“Yes, I did. But you’re supposed to keep quiet, not argue with me. Or make excuses.”

”I wasn’t trying to…” the boy began, but caught himself, and looked embarrassed. Julian studied him quietly, amazed at the awkwardness the boy was able to radiate just sitting still next to him.

“How old are you?” Julian blurted out.

“As old as you want me to be.” The answer, well-rehearsed, came automatically.

“At least you’ve got that part down,” Julian mumbled. “I suppose it’s none of my business anyway.” He suddenly felt older than ever.

The boy, perhaps sensing that something was the matter, reached out towards him. His arm, casually outstretched, was dressed in Rigellian silk, part of an elaborately embroidered blouse that seemed oddly familiar. The room started to blur, and Julian grabbed hold of the arm, as if to steady himself. The boy looked at him, patient, but expectant. He would hate himself in the morning, he really would. Then again, when didn’t he hate himself? He closed his eyes, and let it happen.

Masking holographics had become much more sophisticated since he’d been there last, or maybe he just didn’t remember. Even super-human memories degrade with time, and Julian’s was no exception. Still, how could he have forgotten the way they could make a non-Cardassian body seem so like the genuine article, even down to the pulsing, changing colors of the scales of the lower body when aroused? The holographic membrane even extended into the entertainer’s own body, making Julian marvel, even in the heat of passion, at the uniquely textured, extending scale-skin around the genitals, which – incredibly – were indeed nuzzled inside that protective cocoon he’d caressed into opening like a flower-bud so many times. This one had not needed prompting though, revealing the human nature of its wearer. Cardassians were slow to warm up, like a  
salamander sunning itself in the mid-day sun - but they were ferocious and unstoppable once awakened.

The entertainer didn’t speak again, and Julian almost wished he had. He would… They would always talk when making love. It was like a game, trying to see who could remain calm and coherent the longest. Julian invariably lost, but that didn’t matter. Of course, there was no way this youngster could ever imitate that. He was skilled, though, and perhaps not as inexperienced as Julian had initially thought. He knew exactly what to touch, and how, and when, and for how long. Did they teach them these things now? Almost before Julian had realized what had happened, the youth had positioned himself below him, and was guiding and pushing Julian towards him. This too was wrong, but Julian was too far gone now to protest. His body didn’t process alcohol as well as it used to, and that Centaurian martini had not been his first drink of the day. Desire mixed with drunkenness egged him on. It didn’t last very long.

He’d fallen asleep, he realized as he woke up in what was informally known as the “recovery room”. He’d taken patrons there himself, many times. Some had been too drunk to do anything, some had taken ill, some had merely fallen asleep from exhaustion. Julian had always felt slightly sorry for those cases, who were usually old and frail, their bodies no longer able to handle more than a few minutes of “entertainment”. And now here he was. A young man, probably a doctor or nurse of some kind (they didn’t used to have them, did they?) was watching him with some concern. Julian gave him his most disarming, reassuring smile, and sat up despite the myriad pains in every joint in his body. “It’s alright,” he said, still smiling, “I’m a doctor.” For this he was rewarded with polite laughter, and an offered hand to support him as he staggered towards the door, which he waved away. No one was waiting outside to escort him out. Looking thoughtfully at the elaborate, tastefully decorated front door, he shrugged, feeling an odd sense of relief, and slowly started walking in the opposite direction.

The exit was still where he remembered it; nothing had changed but a fresh coat of paint, and the unfamiliar scent of pine from an air-freshener. Several of the off-duty entertainers were there, giving him odd looks as he passed them by, his eyes trailing the floor. They didn’t want to see him; a reminder of what they could, probably would, become if they stayed. If they didn’t get away from what was both officially and unofficially termed “the entertainment business,” while they still had somewhere else to go Wrapping his coat around him tighter, he walked through the rickety door, into the waiting sunshine. He shouldn’t have come here; he’d started thinking he was better than them. He wasn’t. No one on New Paris was. With a sigh, he turned down the street towards his apartment. It was sunny now, but they’d mentioned it was going to rain. It didn’t look like it would, but on New Paris, it never looked like it would rain. That was the trouble.

Favoring the foot that hadn’t fallen asleep, Julian Bashir walked home, to wait for the rain.


End file.
